


The Fine Line

by LeapAngstily



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:31:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The signs have been there all along, but it takes a disappointing loss and a shared trip before the realization finally sinks in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fine Line

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as a response to this prompt: "Cris seeing Fabio cry after the game was harder to take than the loss. It made him realize, however, that he wants to be the one that is there for Fabio when things get tough. So, when they get back to Portugal, Cris doesn't want Fabio to be wallowing around in pity, and invites him along on vacation, where lots of cuteness occurs."

The shock of losing doesn’t hit Cristiano right away. The disappointment is there, sure – they had been  _so close_ , and really, in the end the result was determined only by luck (or the lack of it). But it doesn’t hurt, not like it usually does after an important loss like this. He doesn’t know what to make of it, how to react.  
  
He barely hears the words of consolation thrown at his direction, or the celebration of the Spaniards all around him. There is a hand on his shoulder, someone speaking to his ear, but his brain doesn’t register any of it.  
  
Maybe the shock  _is_  there, after all.  
  
He sees his teammates, each showing their frustration and disappointment in more or less obvious ways. They still have the decency to congratulate their opponents (Cristiano will do that too, in a moment).  
  
Xabi and Sergio are jumping around, hugging everyone and everything, enjoying their victory to the fullest. It feels odd, seeing his Liga teammates so happy without a chance to join in their celebration.  
  
Then there is Fábio, wiping tears from his eyes – the tears of frustration, disappointment, and maybe something else(?). And for some reason, seeing those tears hurts ten-fold more than losing does.  
  
Cristiano wants to go to his friend, to reach out to him, to stop those offending tears from falling. He wants to tell him that everything is going to be fine, that it will get better after a while. But of course, Fábio already knows that, and Cristiano cannot think of anything else to say.  
  
Others reach Fábio before he makes up his mind. They are speaking to him in soft voices, ruffling his hair, making him smile through his tears (just a little). Doing all the things Cristiano wants to be doing, too.  
  
He keeps his distance instead, and once the shock subsides, he feels more like himself again, with the familiar feelings rushing back in. And it  _will_  get better, there is no other choice.  
  
  
  
Fábio’s mood doesn’t seem to get better in the next few days. While the others get slowly back to joking around, making plans for the break between the Euros and the next football season, he seems to pull tighter into himself. Others don’t seem to notice this, but then again, Fábio is a pretty private guy to begin with, so maybe they just cannot see the difference.  
  
Or maybe Cristiano is just the only one paying attention.  
  
Fábio might be quiet by nature, but usually he is still there, listening to the conversations, jumping in whenever he has something to say. Cristiano misses Fábio’s cheeky, underhanded comments and observations, which he delivers in his soft tone, a little smile playing on his lips. Cristiano is pretty sure Fábio can light up the whole room with just one of those smiles. (He quickly takes the thought back, because thinking something like that is just plain  _girly_.)  
  
They are on the flight back to Portugal, and Fábio is sitting just a few seats behind him. Cristiano spends half of the flight stealing subtle glances at him, ignoring Pepe’s chatter from beside him in the process. Fábio is staring out of the window, at the endless fields of clouds below them, with a look Cristiano cannot quite decipher.  
  
The seat beside Fábio is empty, and Cristiano has a terrible urge to get up and go to him. They haven’t really talked after the semi-final, have they?  
  
“Yo, Cris! You think I enjoy talking to deaf ears?”  
  
Pepe is waving his hand in front of Cristiano’s face, trying to get his attention. He has absolutely no idea what they have been talking about for the past half an hour. (In all fairness, Pepe  _did_  do most of the talking.) The captain mumbles a soft apology, but his friend just snorts and claps him on the shoulder.  
  
“Just go to Fábio already, man! As funny as it is seeing you make puppy eyes at his direction every five seconds, it gets really old really fast”  
  
OK, so maybe his glances hadn’t been so subtle after all.  
  
Despite his initial embarrassment ( _Puppy eyes, really?_ ), Cristiano gets up and strides over to Fábio’s seat with his chin held up. He is  _the_  Cristiano Ronaldo, and he will not give Pepe the satisfaction of seeing him flustered over a harmless joke like that.  
  
“Hey. How’re you holding up?”  
  
He flops down on the seat next to Fábio without asking for permission. They are friends, after all, and there is no one sitting there, so why would he  _not_ be allowed there? He throws an unsure smile toward Fábio as an afterthought, trying to read his response.  
  
There isn’t much to read, really. The blonde turns his gaze from the window toward Cristiano and his brows rise a little in surprise. He doesn’t return the smile like he usually does.  
  
“Oh, it’s you.”  
  
He doesn’t answer Cristiano’s question. Instead he turns back to his staring contest with the clouds. An uncomfortable silence (at least in Cristiano’s opinion) falls between them.  
  
“What’s up with you? You’ve been all out of it ever since the game!”  
  
Cristiano would never admit that he is whining, but there is no other way to describe his tone at that moment. He leans his chin playfully on Fábio’s shoulder, demanding his attention. If he were a kid, he would pout. But because he is a grown man, he settles on a manly frown instead. (There is a difference, really!)  
  
Fábio turns to face him again, shrugging his shoulder to shake off the extra weight there. Confusion flashes on his face when he asks what is up with _Cris_. Like the blonde’s odd behaviour isn’t a good enough explanation.  
  
Cristiano smiles when he finally gets an eye contact.  
  
“Wanna go somewhere? When we get back to Portugal, I mean. Before we’re needed back in Madrid.”  
  
The question comes out without any further consideration, and Cristiano realizes only after the words are out of his mouth that he actually means them. He wants to spend more time with Fábio, just the two of them. He also wants to get the old Fábio back, the one with a cheeky smile and softly spoken, underhanded comments about Cristiano’s hairdo that mean no harm.  
  
“I’m not your kid, Cris. You can’t bribe me into good mood with a promise of a trip and fun times.”  
  
But despite his words, Fábio is smiling now, that slightly crooked,  _beautiful_  smile, his eyes sparking with mirth. Cristiano cannot help but laugh in relief. Then he throws an arm around Fábio’s shoulders and proceeds to ruffle his hair, ignoring the struggles and the pleas to stop – Fábio wouldn’t be laughing with him if he really wanted to get away.  
  
“You got me worried there, you know!”  
  
He leaves his arm around Fábio when he finally stops his assault, carelessly caressing the base of his neck.  
  
“But you’re alright, right?”  
  
The smile doesn’t leave Fábio’s lips when he nods in answer.  
  
“Just a little tired I guess. And disappointed. We would’ve deserved that victory.  _You_  would’ve deserved that victory.”  
  
Cristiano is stunned – Fábio was disappointed for him? He gives a breathy laugh and leans just a little bit closer to his friend. He needs to make sure that this Fábio doesn’t disappear again.  
  
“It’ll get better. We’ve got many more tournaments to come. We’ll make it one day.”  
  
The words of a team captain. He spoke them to his team earlier too, just when they were leaving the changing rooms after the semi-final. But this time they are meant to Fábio’s ears only, a promise between the two of them, spoken softly right next to his ear.  
  
The silence that commences after that is a comfortable one. They hold on to the eye contact, both smiling, the disappointment of the loss long forgotten. As the moment stretches, Cristiano becomes more and more aware of the close proximity between them – he could count Fábio’s eyelashes if he wanted to, he can see the slight stubble on his chin, he can  _feel_  Fábio’s breath on his own lips.  
  
Fábio is the first one to break the eye contact when he pulls back a little, turning his face back to the window. Cristiano thinks he can see a slight blush spreading on his cheeks, but it’s gone when Fábio turns to look at him again, the cheeky smile back in place.  
  
“So, where’re we gonna go, huh?”  
  
Cristiano sniggers at this, poking Fábio’s cheek gently with his finger. Cannot be bribed, huh?  
  
“Wherever you like, man, wherever you like.”  
  
The remainder of the flight is filled with easy conversation, jokes and laughter, the earlier uneasiness all but forgotten. Yeah, they are going to be fine.  
  
  
  
Their trip plans cannot be put into action right away, because they both have families and friends to visit before their return to Spain. The lack of time and their clashing schedules prove problematic, but in the end they agree on a prolonged weekend right before the beginning of the pre-season.  
  
Paris might be the most clichéd, most over-hyped destination ever, but it is also close enough so that they will have time to actually do something, instead of just sitting onboard an airplane waiting to get there. And, as Fábio points out, blending into the masses of tourists is actually a much more effective way to hide from the paparazzi than choosing a more remote location where all the attention would be on them.  
  
They don’t want to start any unnecessary rumours, after all.  
  
“Of course, you could just leave your hair gel home and no one would recognize you,” Fábio quips as an afterthought. Cristiano kicks him in the shins in response. (Gently, of course – it would not do to injure his teammate when they are supposed to be preparing for the upcoming season.)  
  
The blonde answers him by sticking out his tongue and poking him below the ribs playfully. Suddenly Cristiano is fighting two conflicting urges at once – whether to kick Fábio again (harder) or to hug him just for being himself.  
  
He ends up doing both.  
  
  
  
Even while spending time with his family, Cristiano finds time to make some special plans for their weekend in Paris. He writes all of them down on post-it notes and then starts combining them into a more detailed schedule, because how else would they have time for everything?  
  
They have never travelled anywhere together without the context of football and a bunch of teammates tagging along. He just wants everything to be perfect; there is nothing wrong with that, is there?  
  
Marcelo tells him he is being a total girl when he starts fretting over his plans on the phone. Cristiano stutters at this and then calls his friend with some rather creative names before hanging up on him. (Marcelo later sends him a text telling him that only girls throw hissy fits and hang up in the middle of conversation.)  
  
Cristiano ends up scrapping his list of plans. He tells himself it has nothing to do with Marcelo.  
  
  
  
They meet up at Charles de Gaulle, because it is easier to arrange than thinking up a halfway point between Madeira and Vila do Conde. They will take the same flight to Madrid straight from France once their holiday is over.  
  
The taxi ride to the hotel goes by fast, with Cristiano recounting his son’s latest adventures. Really, how can a two-year-old toddler cause so much trouble wherever he goes?  
  
“He obviously takes after his dad,” Fábio comments airily, and Cristiano cannot argue the point.  
  
Their hotel suite is huge: two large bedrooms with double beds and own bathrooms and a separate living area with an assortment of snacks (and even champagne) spread over the table. It all makes Fábio whistle in awe.  
  
“Wow, if I knew that being the best footballer in the world meant this, I would’ve practiced much harder when I was a kid.”  
  
Cristiano watches as the blonde snatches a bowl of pistachios and makes his way to the comfortable-looking couch. He points out softly that it is not like Fábio is anywhere close to being poor himself, but his friend just shrugs it off and throws a pistachio at him.  
  
Cristiano is suddenly terribly aware that they are alone in the room, and they will have the whole suite to themselves for the next three days. For some reason the thought makes him nervous, and he makes his escape to the bathroom, claiming he needs to take a shower.   
  
Fábio yells after him that maybe they can go get some lunch afterwards, and Cristiano agrees easily before he locks himself into the bathroom for the next half an hour, trying to pull himself back together.  
  
  
  
They manage to spend almost all day in peace (a nice lunch followed by shopping and sightseeing) before the first paparazzi take notice of them. Fábio has just persuaded Cristiano to try on a particularly ugly hat which clashes with practically everything he is wearing when the first camera flashes.  
  
Cristiano lets out an exasperated groan while Fábio tries to hide a snigger.  
  
“Think the positive side: at least they’re gonna be so busy discussing your lost fashion sense that there won’t be any juicy headlines about our ‘romantic getaway’ to the city of  _love_ ,” the blonde tells him with a straight face, but his eyes are full of laughter. Cristiano tries not to think about the comment too deeply.  
  
Instead he threatens to take a taxi back to the hotel and to leave Fábio on his own at the mercy of the paparazzi – the little bugger had probably planned the whole thing beforehand – but in the end they just slip through the backdoor and hide in a group of German pensioners on their way to the Eiffel tower.  
  
The rest of the day consists of a familiar pattern: escape the paparazzi, change place, try to act inconspicuous, get caught, escape again, rinse and repeat. Neither of them is unfamiliar with the spotlight, of course, it is more of a matter of principle.  
  
Besides, Cristiano cannot deny that sneaking around in the busy streets of Paris with his friend is actually kind of fun, all things considered.  
  
He definitely doesn’t complain when Fábio takes a soft hold of his wrist and pulls him through a narrow corridor toward a less populated street just around a corner from their hotel.  
  
Fortunately it seems they have managed to lose the paparazzi from their tail, so there is still a chance they will make it back to their suite without anyone discovering the exact place they are staying. (Cristiano knows not to trust that slim hope, though.)  
  
Fábio doesn’t let go of his wrist even though they are back in plain view. Instead he tightens his hold, just a little, and glances in his friend’s direction as if to make sure it is alright with him as well.  
  
“Thanks Cris, for inviting me. This was just what I needed.”  
  
Cristiano cannot help but grin at this, because really, if Fábio’s idea of a nice holiday includes hiding from the paparazzi in every nook and corner, there must be something fundamentally wrong with him. Cristiano tells the blonde as much.  
  
“Maybe you’re right,” Fábio answers softly, locking their gazes together for a while that seems to stretch forever. Cristiano thinks his heart might have skipped a beat or two and he has no idea what to say. (He ends up saying nothing.)  
  
Then the moment in gone; Fábio lets go of his wrist hesitantly and they make their way back to the hotel in silence.  
  
Only later does Cristiano notice that maybe he should have thanked Fábio as well, because the blonde isn’t the only one who had needed this.  
  
  
  
Cristiano has never even considered kissing another man, not even to try it out. Quite frankly, if someone had suggested a few years back that he would ever feel attracted to his own gender, he would have laughed at the absurdity. But that was all before Fábio waltzed into his life with his peculiar ways and beautiful smile.  
  
And even then it took Cristiano  _years_  to recognize the feelings building up inside him.  
  
He really thinks he should be more concerned about his newly-discovered preferences than he actually is. All those deep-sounding things about the perception of self and sexual identity, you know.   
  
Then again, worrying about trivial things like that is kind of difficult when he has his lap full of Fábio, who keeps dropping soft kisses all over his face and neck, until Cristiano reaches out to him again and claims his lips in a bruising kiss.  
  
He is not quite sure which one of them made the first move. Perhaps the whole day – the pistachios, the ugly hats, the empty corridors, the paparazzi (Ok, maybe not the paparazzi) – had been just a build-up for the moment when he finally closed the hotel room door behind them and found himself embracing the beautiful blonde, seeking out his lips like his life depended on it.  
  
Cristiano  _had_  asked Fábio what the hell they were doing, but his friend’s matter-of-fact answer didn’t really make the situation any clearer.  
  
“We’re kissing, I’m sure you’ve done it with dozens of women before. Now come back here.” He didn’t say the ‘duh’ aloud, but Cristiano could hear it in his voice anyways. And then the blonde had pulled him in another kiss and there were no complaints this time.  
  
Kissing Fábio is nothing like kissing a woman. His stubble scratches Cristiano’s chin, his body is all sharp edges and firm muscle, his wandering hands seem to know exactly where to go, and he  _fights_  Cristiano for dominance.  
  
Fábio pulls back a little, biting Cristiano’s lower lip gently in the process, only to run his tongue over the same spot right after. He stays close, still straddling his friend’s lap, his laboured breaths playing on Cristiano’s lips. He looks like he wants to say something – something deep and important, Cristiano bets.  
  
“So, can we go to Disneyland tomorrow?”  
  
The question takes Cristiano completely by surprise and he has to hide his face in Fábio’s hair in order to disguise the very unmanly giggle that escapes his lips. He doesn’t succeed, of course, because his friend can still  _feel_  the laughter even if the sound is muffled. Fábio lets out a laugh too, kissing Cristiano’s earlobe softly (because it is the closest part he can reach in their position).  
  
“I’m afraid that would seem too much like a date, even for us. The press would have a field day,” the captain informs his friend (Boyfriend? Lover? Something else entirely?), his face still pressed into the blond mop of hair. And of course Fábio knows this already, so instead of answering in words, he barely snuggles up even closer to Cristiano.  
  
“So, my place or yours?” he asks cheekily, slipping his hands under Cristiano’s button-up shirt and pushing it aside to gain better access.  
  
Cristiano cannot find the words to answer, not when every cell of his body just  _screams_  for more skin contact. His hands find a firm hold on Fábio’s hips, and then the blonde lets himself be pushed down to the couch without resistance, leaving Cristiano a free reign to explore his body downwards.  
  
They manage to make their way to the bed only more than an hour later.  
  
  
  
“Maybe we should take Junior with us next time. Would explain the Disneyland and all,” Cristiano muses aloud in the wee hours of morning, idly stroking Fábio’s hair.  
  
To Cristiano’s surprise, instead of just sleeping on, Fábio mumbles something into his pillow (Cristiano’s pillow, that is, because obviously the other half of the king-size bed is much too far away) before turning to face him.  
  
“Bet he’d love that,” the blonde repeats when he notices Cristiano’s questioning look. His smile is sleepy and his eyes half-closed, but still his reply sends warm waves of happiness all over Cristiano’s body.  
  
He knows it is not going to be this easy. They have to be extra careful in public from now on not to reveal anything, but still they cannot start acting differently from the way they have been until now. It is going to be one hell of a challenge, Cristiano knows, to keep acting all touchy-feely with Fábio without publicly crossing the line they have practically stomped over tonight.  
  
And then there is the massive identity crisis just waiting to hit Cristiano once he finally comes to his senses and really  _understands_  what is happening between them.  
  
But for tonight Cristiano pushes away all the nagging  _what_ s and  _why_ s and  _how_ s, and throws an arm over the amazing man next to him. Fábio has fallen asleep again, but still he presses himself more tightly to Cristiano’s side when he feels the arm around him.  
  
A smile tugs at Cristiano’s lips as the sleep starts sneaking up on him as well.  
  
Identity crisis be damned, they are going be fine, because nothing that feels this  _right_  can be wrong.


End file.
